


Masked Men and Where to Find Them

by tinyrose65



Series: Harry's Home for Wayward Superheroes [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Genderbend, Genderswap, Post-Hogwarts, Spoilers for Daredevil Season 1, Spoilers for Daredevil Season 2, Spoilers for Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5301818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyrose65/pseuds/tinyrose65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter moved to Hell's Kitchen because she wanted a fresh start: time away from the spotlight, where she could focus on being the best Healer she could be. Trust the unconscious man in her dumpster to go and complicate things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance Meetings

Harry wasn't sure how she had ended up with an unconscious man bleeding on her couch, but end up with one she did, and now she was a loss for what to do.

To be fair, he wasn't bleeding anymore. She'd healed him up to the best of her abilities (which were quite extensive, as she was a Healer and good at her job, thank you very much), and now she was just waiting for him to wake up.

With a sigh, she once again reached over to feel his pulse. It was still there, stronger than before, beating steadily against her fingers. She was about to pull away when a hand darted out and grabbed her wrist.

She nearly screamed.

The unconscious man was no longer unconscious. In fact, he was awake, eyes open and looking at her— or, at least, in her  _direction_. They seemed to be staring over her shoulder at nothing. This, combined with the lack of reaction to light from his pupils that she had noticed earlier, helped Harry come to one conclusion:

"You're blind!" she said, perhaps more accusingly than the situation warranted. At the sound of her voice, the man's gaze shifted slightly as he was better able to pinpoint where she was.

"Thank you for noticing," he said, his voice still rough from when he had been unconscious. "Where am I?"

"My apartment," Harry said without thinking. In retrospect, this probably wasn't very useful information.

"I figured as much," he said, lips twitching slightly as he confirmed her suspicions. "And you are?"

"I'm the woman who dragged your sorry behind out of her dumpster," she told him tartly, not pleased with the way he seemed to be laughing at her. "You're welcome."

He reached up to touch his own face. "You've seen my face."

Harry rolled her eyes. Sarcastically she said, "Yes, and it's lovely. Although, you need a better costume— I mean, pantyhose?  _Really?_ "

"It's a work in progress," he said, frowning, clearly not pleased that she had taken his mask off. Changing the subject, he asked, "How did you get me up three flights of stairs?"

"…Elevator."

"There's no elevator," he said, calling her bluff.

Choosing to ignore the fact that there was no way he should've been able to know that, Harry raised an eyebrow, deciding to play him at his own game and deflect his question with a question of her own. "How did you know we were on the fourth floor?"

The man shifted uncomfortably, clearly in as little a mood to answer her questions as she was his. They had reached an impasse. He slowly sat up, Harry reaching over hesitantly to help him, if needed. She had healed away all of his injuries, but there would still be some residual soreness and stiffness in the deeper muscle and tissue injuries.

"I feel as though these wounds are days old, not a few hours" he said as he finished sitting up, amazement coloring his voice. His tone turned accusing. "What did you do to me?"

"Are you honestly complaining?" she asked rhetorically. Then, speaking in her best "healer voice", so dubbed by Ron, she instructed, "Be careful. Those wounds need a few more days to heal completely, so take it easy until then."

"That won't work for me," he said, shaking his head and moving to stand. Harry stood with him, feeling immediately dwarfed by his height and strength.

She didn't consider herself a weak woman. Small, yes. But weak? She still practiced Quidditch quite regularly at an intramural league down in Central Park, and she ran almost every day. This man, though, was clearly  _strong_. That much she should've figured from his ability to survive sustaining all of those injuries. Now that he stood, though, Harry got a better look at how his t-shirt fit tightly against firm muscles, and, despite being blind, he carried himself with a grace and confidence in his movements that she would rather not test.

"Why not?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes. The man looked as though he was debating answering her. His eyes flicked behind her to where the window was. Harry vaguely wondered how hew knew it was there if he couldn't see it, but she didn't let that deter her. "Don't you dare jump out that window. I could stop you."

Despite their frankly ridiculous size difference, something in her voice must've convinced him that she was serious about her threat. In the end, something in him broke, because his shoulders sagged slightly and he suddenly looked more exhausted than he had even when Harry had first found him. He said, "The Russians. They're running a human trafficking ring out of Hell's Kitchen. Took over when the Italians folded up. Two days ago they pulled a kid out of the back of a van. Beat his father while he watched."

"Merlin's beard," Harry said, eyes wide. Her mind moved immediately to Teddy, who was safe at Andromeda's. If anything had happened to him… Well, the ones who took him wouldn't be pleased to meet her, that much was certain.

"So, what?" she asked, moving back to the current topic of conversation. "The Russians did this to you? Why?"

He smirked. "I've been making their lives difficult as of late."

Harry blinked. "But you're blind."

"There are other ways to see," was all he said. He bent down to her coffee table and began feeling around, as if searching for something. His mask, probably.

 _Well that answers nothing,_  Harry concluded to herself. Harry picked his mask up for him and handed it to him. He took it and slipped it on, looking, Harry had to admit, frankly ridiculous. He nodded— the only thanks she had gotten from him so far— and moved towards the window.

_Wait._

"You're not actually leaving, are you?" Harry demanded. "Did you hear a word I said about those injuries?"

"Yes," he told her, opening the window. "And I appreciate the advice. But those Russians have a little boy. I can't just let that go."

"You'll be walking into a trap," Harry pointed out, quite reasonably she felt. The man didn't look particularly concerned. In fact, he was already halfway out the window. He had only stopped when she started to talk to him.

"That's a risk I'll have to take." He said simply.

Then he was gone.

Harry was left gaping, rather ridiculously, she might add, at an open window. She went over to it and stuck her head outside, wondering if she could see him still. She couldn't He had disappeared. Harry shut the window and began cleaning up the mess she had made healing him— potions bottles and poultices were strewn all over the floor. As she did so, she muttered angrily to herself.

"Didn't even say 'thanks.' Honestly. The nerve…"

* * *

It had been several hours since the strange man had left her apartment. After a rather interesting visit from a detective, Harry had gone ahead and showered, taking the time to bask in the hot water of her apartment and rinse the blood that had gathered on her hands from treating the man's wounds.

 _I wish all of the blood on my hands would wash off this easily_ , she thought to herself as she finished.

She wrapped herself up in a fluffy towel and then changed into the most comfortable (and ragged) pajamas she owned. She had just settled down on the couch with a good book and some warm tea when there was a knock at her window.

Harry jumped, jostling the tea and spilling some on her lap in the process. She hissed as it burned her slightly through the material, setting her things on the table. She looked over to the window and, to her surprise, saw the masked man perched on her fire escape, seemingly waiting for an invite in. Harry considered the situation only briefly before getting up and opening the window. She stepped aside as the man climbed in.

"Did you find the boy?" Harry demanded, as soon as he was inside, taking the chance to look him over. There were a few new tears in his clothes and his jaw sported a new bruise (probably not the only one— just the only one that she could see), but he otherwise looked no more worse for wear.

 _Good,_ she thought, satisfied.  _I'd hate for all my hard work to be undone so quickly._

"I did," he confirmed. "The Russians were waiting for me— a trap, like you said— but I took care of them."

Harry sighed with relief. Although she'd never admit it to him, the boy had been on her mind since he'd left, along with thoughts of what that poor kid's father must've been going through. To know that he was safe (that they were  _both_ safe) took a load off of her mind.

"How did you track him?" she asked.

"I found a Russian. Got him to talk," he said tersely. It was clearly not a subject he wanted her to pursue any further. Harry never could take a hint though.

"How?" she persisted, with the dogged determination that had won her the war.

He didn't answer, but that was answer enough for Harry.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that, to be honest. There was a time when she never would've condoned any form of torture, but that was before the war, before the Battle of Hogwarts. Now… well, she wasn't sure. She decided to focus on the fact that a little boy was alive because of the man's actions.

That had to be enough for now.

"You thought he was a detective, the man I found" the man said suddenly, breaking their silence. His head was tilted in a way that reminded Harry of a confused puppy. She doubted he'd appreciate the comparison. "Yet you lied to him anyways about seeing me. Why?"

She shrugged, feeling a bit self-conscious under his gaze, even though he was blind. "Didn't seem like my place to say, I suppose."

The man hummed noncommittally, clearly not believing that her answer was that simple. Still, he didn't push it, seemingly deciding that it wasn't worth it. "He didn't believe you, at any rate."

"My friends always said I was a terrible liar," Harry snorted. "Or maybe the blood stains on my couch gave it away."

He looked a bit guilty, although it was admittedly rather difficult to see behind the mask. Harry wished he'd just take it off so they could talk properly. She already seen his face— despite how upset that had made him earlier— there wasn't much reason for the mask at this point, aside from sheer paranoia, which she supposed he must have plenty of.

"Sorry about those," he said sheepishly.

Harry just shrugged. "The price you pay for helping people."

The man had been wandering around her living room, reaching out here and there to run his hands over things. He was getting a feel for things, she supposed. Literally. She should've felt angry about the invasion of privacy, but to be honest, there wasn't much here for him to feel. She had moved in only recently, so the apartment was relatively bare aside from some essentials. The most personal items on display were the moving photographs from Ron and Hermione's wedding, but he couldn't see those.

When she spoke, he stopped and walked back towards her. He was facing her when he asked, "How  _did_ you heal me?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. This was the question she was been hoping to avoid. She had known from the moment she brought him up to her apartment that she was more or less flouting the Statute of Secrecy (or whatever the American equivalent was). She should've taken him straight to a Muggle hospital and let them deal with him, but no. That would've gone against her very nature.

The right thing to do would be to call in some government officials and have them use a Memory Charm on him—remove all memories of the incident from his mind. Harry couldn't bring herself to do that, though. She had always thought that this was a rather drastic measure, especially in this case, where the man's concern for his own secret identity meant that he was unlikely to go on nattering about the night's events to anybody.

_Which reminds me…_

"I'll tell you how I healed you, if you tell me your name," Harry said, rather proud of herself for coming up with a such a compromise. The man looked less pleased, a frown passing over his face, as much as Harry had expected. When he didn't respond, Harry tutted knowingly. "I thought so."

"It'd be dangerous for you to know my name," he explained.

Harry wasn't impressed. "I understand, although it's a shame. I mean, I'll have to call you something if you keep coming here to be healed."

"Pardon?" the man asked, confused.

"You're obviously not going to stop getting beat up," Harry explained. "As a Heal— I mean, doctor, it's my job to fix you up. I doubt you'll take yourself to the hospital."

"I can't ask you to do that," the man denied.

"That's why I'm offering," Harry snapped, raising an eyebrow. She pushed the man slightly to the side so she could reach the desk shoved off to the corner of the room.  She grabbed a scrap piece of paper and pen and scribbled her number down onto it. Then she turned around and all but shoved it at the man.  "Take this and call me when you need help. It'd be nice to have some warning before you show up here, in case I'm entertaining guests."

The man hesitated for a second, clearly debating the merits of having somebody like Harry on-call. She hoped he'd agree— aside from the guilt that would be eating at her for not helping, she was admittedly curious about him and his quest to beat up Russian mobsters. Healing him on a regular basis would give her the chance to learn more.  In the end, he took the piece of paper and shoved it into his pocket. 

"I'm Harry, by the way," she offered by way of greeting, sticking out her hand for him to shake. "Harry Potter."

He didn't show any sign of recognition at her name, which Harry had expected given his lack of knowledge about the magical community. It was a nice change from the reactions she often got, even here in America, where she had come to escape life in the public eye.

He took her hand. "Nice to meet you, Harry."

"I have to call you something, you know," Harry mused, eyeing him critically. "What do you think of 'Draco?'"

" _Draco_?" the man— now Draco— sputtered indignantly.

"The name of an old boyfriend," Harry laughed. Growing a bit more serious, she added, "He liked keeping secrets, too."

Draco considered her words, then, with a completely serious expression on his face, he asked, "You really dated a man named 'Draco?'"

"Not one of my wiser moments," Harry said, moving past him and finally letting herself fall back onto the couch. At this point, she was fairly certain he wasn't going to murder her, so she could afford to let her guard down a bit (although she still had her wand holstered up her sleeve, just in case). Then, defensively, added, "But I found you half dead in a dumpster. You don't get to judge."

The man laughed.

Dating Malfoy had been… interesting (and not in a good way). Harry had decided to give him a try not long after the Battle at Hogwarts. Looking back, she supposed she was just searching for a way to get move on past Fred's death (funny, charming,  _sweet_  Fred). She was in a dark spot in her life and Draco Malfoy, her old nemesis and perhaps Fred's opposite in every way, seemed like a good idea at the time.

Their relationship had been fine at the beginning— more heated and wild than anything, but that's what she had wanted. Once the heat had died down, the problems had started. War had changed them all, Harry knew, and she thought that maybe it had changed Malfoy, too.

She wasn't wrong, but it hadn't changed him for the better.

He was meaner and more manipulative even Snape at his worst. He was constantly on edge from his parents' impending court date. He had treated her alright, at first. They had their squabbles, same as always, but would always apologize to each other and make-up. Then one day they'd gotten into a massive fight (about her testimony at his parents' trial) and he'd back-handed her across the face.

It was the wake-up call she had needed. Harry left her old life behind and had never looked back, eventually going on to become a Healer and moving to New York to get away from the limelight.

"Got a thing for bad boys?" the man in the mask— Draco— asked, bringing her attention back to him.

"Apparently," Harry said with a laugh. She eyed him. He was smiling a bit now, and Harry had to admit that it was a nice small— friendly, a bit warm.

Aside from the blood in his teeth.

Harry found herself smiling back as he headed back towards the window, having seemingly decided (like her) that their conversation for the night was over. He was halfway out when she called him back.

"Wait," she said, sitting up slightly. He stopped on the spot and angled his head towards her to show that he was listening. She bit her lip worriedly, then asked, "Why did you come back?"

"I forgot to say thank you," he parroted with a smirk. Harry felt the heat rush to her cheeks, although the part of her that wasn't embarrassed wondered how he had heard any of that. Before she could hazard a guess, he added, sincerity coloring his voice, " _Thank you,_ Harry."

"You're very welcome," she told him warmly.  She _liked_ helping people, after all. "I'll be seeing you, I suppose."

After a moment's thought, she warned him, "Try to stay out of trouble."

He gave her a mock salute, then was gone, out the window once again. Left alone to her now very-cold tea and her thoughts, Harry couldn't help but wonder what in the world she had gotten herself into.


	2. A Kidnapping Attempt

Matt should've known that getting Harry involved with his schemes would only lead to trouble for her, but it just too tempting a situation to pass up: a mysterious woman with a lovely voice who could make new injuries seem days old? He had thought of all the people he could help if not bogged down by his body's own healing ability.

And there was a part of him— a very small part— that was too excited about the prospect of somebody like him, somebody gifted, even if her gifts were of a completely different variety. Maybe he wouldn't have to feel quite so isolated anymore. Maybe there was somebody out there who could understand him.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He'd been going to her apartment after his patrols for a few weeks now, and he had to admit that it was spoiling him. Major injuries faded into nothing, and she even took the time to fix up his minor cuts and bruises, no matter how much he insisted that they weren't bothering him. It was nice, being taken care of like that. Never mind that Stick would have a fit if he knew. It wasn't enough reason for him to stop seeing her, though. In fact, knowing of his old mentor's disapproval might've spurred him on even more. It was hard to say.

Still, despite his increasing dependence on her, he was surprised when she called. He was with Foggy. They were walking down the street, trying to hail a cab, when Matt heard his burner phone ringing.

"You've got a phone just for chicks?" Foggy whined, as Matt pulled out the cell. It was the same thing he had said when Matt had come to him, handing him the crumpled up piece of paper with Harry's number on it and asking for help programming it onto the burner. Foggy had teased him then and Matt had a feeling he'd be enduring a lot of teasing in the future, too.

"Go ahead without me," he instructed Foggy, gesturing to the cab that was waiting for them both. Foggy shrugged, still grumbling to himself, and got in the car. Meanwhile, Matt answered the phone.

"Harry?"

"Draco. Hi." Harry said breathlessly. No matter how much he had asked, she hadn't stopped calling him that ridiculous name.

"Are you alright?" He asked with a frown. He had already turned and was walking quickly towards her place. "You sound— off."

She hummed in acknowledgement. "Yes, well. I might have a bit of a problem."

"I'll be there in five minutes," he promised, not giving her a chance to respond as he hung up. He ducked into an alley, searching for a fire-escape. He decided that he didn't have time to go change, and that instead he would just have to be more careful about being seen. It was late and already dark, so he doubted it'd be much of a problem. He rolled and ducked and jumped over rooftops, mentally plotting the shortest distance to her place. As he got closer, he strained his senses, listening for her, trying to gather whatever information he could.

He heard  _her_ first. She was shuffling her feet oddly and muttering to herself. There were other heartbeats in the room, but they were steady and unbelievably slow. Unconscious, probably. That made little sense to Matt, but he'd never doubted his senses before, and he wasn't about to start now.

Making it to the window and perching on the fire-escape, he could now hear what Harry was repeatedly saying under her breath:

"Obliviate. Obliviate. Obliviate."

The men (and they were men, from what Matt could guess from their size) were definitely all unconscious, although there were no obvious wounds on them as far as Matt could sense. Harry was moving around, leaning over each of them in turn, and muttering her strange word (was it Latin? It sounded vaguely like some of the Latin he head learnt at Columbia). From outside, he couldn't tell if she was injured. The most he could say is that she seemed to have twisted an ankle, judging by the sound of her feet moving across the floor.

He knocked on the window to get Harry's attention. When she heard him, she didn't jump like the first night they had met, probably because this time she was expecting him. Instead, she stopped whatever it was she was doing and looked up.

"Oh, good," she said, talking as though she wasn't surrounded by half a dozen unconscious men. She walked over, side stepping the bodies, and opened the window so he could enter. He did so, then tried to take everything in, unsure of where to even begin.

"What are you  _doing_?" Matt sputtered. "What— I mean,  _how?"_

"Russians," Harry said by way of explanation. He felt her arm stir the air around them and guessed that she was gesturing at all of the bodies. "I think they were trying to kidnap me. I didn't let them."

"Obviously," Matt said drily, still in shock. "But _how_?"

"Let's chalk that up to things we don't talk about," Harry said hesitantly. Her voice sounded a bit strange. Matt guessed she was also nursing a split lip.

Matt had wondered how exactly her abilities worked, but had always assumed that they were just healing powers, nothing more. Judging by the scene around him, he was clearly wrong. He had a fleeting moment where he wondered why somebody like her wasn't working with the Avengers, but then shoved that away. It was none of his business as to why Harry chose to do what she did. Maybe she was like him in that sense— preferred to help on a smaller scale, as opposed to the grand battles of superheroes.

"What are you doing now?" He asked. She had gone back to moving around, uttering strange words.

"I'm erasing their memories. They won't remember any of this. Or any of  _you,_ for that matter. At least not until you muck about with them again."

"That's... good." Matt responded while thinking, " _She can do that?"_

"I'm just not sure what to do with the bodies," Harry admitted, shoulders slumping. Matt frowned and went closer to her, then reached out and rubbed her upper arms soothingly.

"I'll take care of it," he assured. He was already planning on how to get the bodies out of the fire escape and into an alley several buildings away. It wouldn't be easy, but it'd be doable. And if, like Harry said, they didn't remember anything about this, then he wouldn't have to worry about them finding out where Harry lived again.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of Harry sniffling just a tad pathetically. Intently, because the answer really was important to him, he asked, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she responded. Her voice was fraught with tension. The fluttering of her heart picked up as she spoke.

"Liar."

Harry made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. It was something between a laugh and a sob, and Matt couldn't say that he liked hearing that sound come from her.

"Give me a second," she said, breaking free of his grip, since his hands were still on her shoulders. She moved towards one of the bodies and stood over it for a moment. Matt heard the tensing of some muscles and then—

THUD.

—she kicked the unconscious man hard in the face. He didn't move, didn't even groan. He was completely out of it. Matt had his eyebrows raised and a small smirk on his face as she came back to him.

"Alright," Harry said, letting out a breath. " _Now_ I'm fine." Her heartbeat remained steady.

* * *

In the end, after he had taken care of the bodies, Matt chose to take her back to his apartment. She agreed once she was done with their memories. It was funny, but they had known each other for a few weeks now, and she had never seen his apartment, for all the times that he had seen hers. Their relationship was unbalanced that way, he supposed.

He fixed her up the best he could, applying the poultices she had grabbed from her place as she instructed him. She took care of her own ankle, and hearing the bone and muscle mend itself was a very strange experience indeed.

("What does it sound like?"

"Like a house settling.")

In the end, she thanked him. He gave her one of his old shirts to wear, which she gratefully took, and put her in his bed for the night.

He took the couch.

The next morning, he was up before she was. He had showered, changed, and had his breakfast before he heard her up and moving around. He supposed this made sense. Her body needed to save energy and heal. It also needed nutrients, so he had food ready for her by the time she exited his bathroom, hair wet and wearing another one of his shirts (she must've raided his closet for it, but he found that he didn't mind).

"How do you feel?" he asked, setting a plate of eggs and toast and bacon on the table as she sat down. He wasn't the best cook, so perhaps it wasn't the nicest breakfast, but it was edible, and she seemed pleased with it.

"Like the Russian mob tried to kidnap me," she quipped, taking a bite of her toast. She  _sounded_ better. The swelling on her lip had gone down and her ankle seemed to have healed completely.

"I'm sorry about that," he said quietly, seriously, as he sat down next to her. Having already eaten his breakfast, all he had in hand was a cup of coffee.

He heard her shake her head. "No, no, no. None of that. If I remember correctly,  _I_ offered to help  _you,_ not the other way around. This was my choice, Draco."

He hesitated. "Matthew."

"Hm?"

"My name," he told her earnestly, smiling slightly at her confusion. She deserved to know it after everything she had done and been through for him. "It's Matthew. My friends call me Matt."

"Matthew," she repeated, as though testing the feel of it on her lips. She laughed slightly. "Suits you better than Draco, that's for certain."

"I think so, too," he said, laughing with her. They were quite for a moment. He could hear the sound of her heartbeat speeding up. She was fiddling with her food, shuffling the eggs around until they were nothing but a runny mess. Clearly, she was hesitating about something, but he didn't know what. All he could do was wait for her to come to a decision, so he sipped his coffee quietly.

"I'm a witch," she said finally.

Matt's choked on his coffee. His first thought was to demand who had told her that, because they were very, very wrong. Harry was great. Lovely even. Anybody who thought she was a witch deserved a switch punch in the face, and he'd be more than happy to supply it.

His second thought was to realize that this was probably not what she had meant. So she meant it literally. Which—  _What?_

He repeated this last thought aloud. Matt assumed he must've looked pretty confused, because she took pity on him and patted him gently on the shoulder as she explained, "A witch. A wizard, if you'd like. I have magical abilities."

"Oh," was all Matt could think to say.

"I could prove it to you," she offered nervously.

Matt should've pointed out that finding her surrounded by unconscious men twice her size, having her heal knife wounds and twisted ankles in the blink of an eye— all of that was proof enough, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite all that he had witnessed her do, he couldn't quite believe in  _magic,_ not in the way she seemed to mean it.

Instead, he nodded permission.

She was thoughtful for a moment. Then said, "Hold out your hands."

The fact that he did so with no hesitation said volumes about just how much he had come to trust her.

She placed something in his hands, and Matt was left wondering just how she planned on proving the existence of wizards  _with a fork,_ when she mumbled some more strange words under her breath. Then the fork was bending, twisting,  _moulding,_ and suddenly he was left holding a very real, old-fashioned goblet.

He dropped it in surprise, narrowly avoiding his foot, and let out a startled, "Agh!"

Harry wasn't fazed. She reached down and picked it up, setting it back on the table.

"It won't last forever," she assured him. "You'll have your fork back in a day or so."

"That's not what worries me," Matt scowled. Harry didn't seem bothered by his frown. In fact, judging by her quiet snickering, she was more amused by his reaction than anything else.

"I don't understand," Matt said finally. "Were you— I mean, were you born with these powers?"

"I was," Harry confirmed. "But I didn't find out about them until I was older. No thanks to my bloody relatives."

Harry had never mentioned her family in the short time they had known each other. To be fair, neither had Matt. At any other time, he'd take advantage of this slip of information and press her further, but now there were more important things on his mind. Harry took another bite of her toast while Matt processed things. It was a lot to take in, really. Wizards and witches? It was the sort of thing you read about in stories, not experienced in real life. Then again, he lived in a city where aliens dropped out of the sky on a regular basis. He could handle witches.

(Right?)

"You can't tell anybody," Harry cautioned. Matt snorted, wondering who in the world he'd tell. It's not as though he could blurt out to Foggy that he'd met a magical doctor while he was out fighting crime. "They'd erase your memories and fine me. Or possibly throw me in prison. I don't know."

"Who's 'they?'"

"The wizarding government," Harry said matter-of-factly. "There're plenty of us, you know. An entire secret society that muggles— people without magic— don't know about."

"Oh," he said again.

And what else was he supposed to say?

Matt remained lost in his thoughts for another few minutes, occasionally sipping at his coffee. Next to him, Harry munched away happily at her food, the events from the night before clearly having left her hungry enough to stomach Matt's cooking (which Foggy had complained about often enough).

Then, out of nowhere, Harriet let out a small cry and the taste of copper split the air.

"You've reopened the cut on your lip," Matt stated. He heard the rustle of a napkin as Harry applied it to the open wound.

"Must've not of put enough Essence of Dittany on it last night," Harry grumbled through the napkin. This was probably Matt's fault. Stitching up his father's face after a boxing match he could handle, but apparently not magicking away wounds.

He was already up and walking over to his coffee table, where Harry's healing supplies were still strewn about from the night before. He was familiar with the sharp and distinctive smell of Dittany after all the times Harry had used it on him, so he had no trouble locating the bottle. With it in hand, he went back to Harry's side and sat down in his chair, angling it so he was facing her. She did the same with her chair to him, putting her napkin down on the table and giving him unobstructed access to her face. He placed a few drops of the essence on his fingertips. It was warm and slightly oily to the touch.

"May I?" he asked, holding his hand up. Touching Harry in this way felt too intimate to do without permission. He felt Harry nod.

With as much care as he could manage, Matt touched his potion-covered fingers to her lip, rubbing it gently into the cut despite her slight hiss of pain. The cut slowly fused together, disappearing into the surrounding skin. If Matt had needed more proof of her magic (he hadn't), then this was it. There was no denying it now.

Finished, he pulled his hand away and wiped the remaining Dittany off on the napkin Harry had been using earlier. That's when he realized that in the process of healing her, his and Harry's faces had gotten quite close. In fact, it would be nothing at all to lean in and kiss her.

So he did.

Matt was not the sort to believe in fairytale, love-at-first-sight sort of romances. Maybe had a bit in his younger days, but he'd grown cynical as he had grown older, and now he believed that although attraction could be instant, love and relationships took a lot of hard work.

Kissing Harry didn't change that.

But, still.

The kiss was  _nice._ It had been a while since he'd kissed somebody he'd genuinely cared for, and he'd forgotten how good a feeling that was. It was like coming home after a long day or the feeling of the springtime sun on your face after a long winter.

Warm, and soft, and comforting.

Matt pulled away, letting himself smile just a bit. The heat radiating from Harry's face told him that she was blushing. Wanting to feel it for himself, he reached up and placed his hands on her warm cheeks. His fingers traced over the slight upturn of her lips, the hollow of her dimples, the proud jut of her chin.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," he admitted. Then, realizing what he was doing, he made to pull his hands back. Her hands on his wrists stopped him. She was smiling more broadly now, and he got the distinct impression that she was laughing at him just a bit. She did that a lot, he noticed.

"I'm glad you did," she told him. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever work up the nerve."

Matt made a slightly indignant sound in the back of his throat as Harry removed her hands. He let his fall to his lap. He could hear her worrying the skin of her lip with her teeth, and he momentarily feared that she'd end up undoing all of their hard work. Then she began to talk.

"Since we're baring our souls to each other—"

"I would hardly call it  _baring our souls_..."

"—do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"I know you're blind," she began, "Obviously. But you can do  _so_   _much_. How?"

"I guess you have to think of it as more than five senses," Matt said finally. After considering the question for a moment, Matt launched into a brief explanation about his enhanced senses, from temperature to vibrations in the air, combined with sounds and smells and tastes, explaining that it call worked together to create a mental picture of the world. Harry considered the point, but ultimately seemed unsatisfied.

"But what does that picture  _look like?_ "

Matt considered this, before finally settling on an answer. "A world on fire."

The silence after that particular statement made Matt think that, for once, he'd stolen words out of Harry's mouth, which he personally considered a pretty great achievement. In the short time he had known her, she'd proven herself with a remarkably sharp tongue. Just as he was feeling proud of himself for silencing her, she let out an amused snort.

"Figures. If everything I saw was on fire, I'd want to hit things, too."

This startled a laugh out of Matt, and he was still smiling from it as he headed into work that day.

* * *

 

A few nights later, Matt came home and handed Harry an old burner phone so she could look it over for him. He was hoping to find some information regarding the Russians or Fisk or  _anybody_ that could help put an end to all of this.

"No contacts listed," Harry noted as she flipped through it. He could hear the tapping of her fingers on the keys and the telltale beeps of the phone.

"It's a burner," Matt clarified from the kitchen where he was getting himself a drink of water. His head was in the fridge, but he knew she'd still hear him. "Like the one I use to contact you."

He grabbed the water he was looking for and closed the refrigerator door, walking back to where Harry was in the living room. Opening the water bottle and taking a swig from it, he asked her, "The phone was buzzing earlier. Did somebody leave a message?"

"A text," Harry clarified. "A list of locations. Four of them: 47th and 12th; 48th and 9th; 42nd and 10th; 44th and 11th."

"That's it," he said stopping her. Harry's head snapped up from where she had been looking down at the cell-phone. "44th and 11th. Troika Restaurant."

"Where they were holding that boy?" Harry asked. Matt nodded, putting the water down on the coffee table and picking up his mask. Harry must've noticed he was getting ready to leave because her heart rate picked up slightly in—  _worry? For him_? She continued, "Where did you even get this, anyway?"

"Cop."

"Matt," she sighed, exasperated. "When I told you to go to the police, this is hardly what I meant."

"Nah," Matt denied, fiddling with his mask. "He was dirty. Working for Fisk. Killed a Russian right inside the precinct, then got this list of addresses. I'm betting I'll find Vladimir at one of them."

Harry considered the point for a second. "Is Vladimir the one who ordered the kidnapping at my apartment?"

"Probably."

"Then hit him extra hard for me, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am" Matt said with a smirk. Her heart rate picked up again, but he had a feeling it was from something else this time. He slipped the mask on and got ready to leave through the fire escape, but a hand at his arm stopped him.

"Wait," she said. He had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts of Russians and Fisk and  _what now_ that he hadn't even noticed Harry getting up off of the couch and coming towards him. "What are you really going to do if you find him?"

"...whatever it takes."

"Matt," she said again, but this time her voice was slightly scolding. He felt himself bristle at her tone.

"I'm doing what I think is right, Harry," he snapped.

"I didn't say you weren't," she said, sounding a tad insulted.

Harry was quiet after that, and Matt wondered if he had been too harsh with her. He was about to apologize when she started talking.

"Not that long ago, I was in a place a bit like you: backed into a corner, and the only way out I could see was to fight." She spoke softly, so soft that it was almost a whisper. It made her sound very, very old. "I made some decisions then, some of which I regret, but a lot of which I don't. I hurt people, people who hurt my friends, and I don't feel an ounce of remorse for it. What kind of person does that make me?"

Her heartbeat was steady. Not a lie, then, not that Matt had expected it to be. Harry was many things, but a liar wasn't one of them. Even as the silence held, he still didn't answer her. He supposed Harry hadn't expected him to. She continued:

"That's why I became a Healer— so I could help people. I never wanted to see that side of me again."

There was another pause. Matt took the moment to let the words sink in. Then he said, "I guess you're just stronger than I am."

"Funny," Harry told him. "I was thinking just the opposite."

"What do you want me to do, Harry? Let them tear Hell's Kitchen apart? Let them  _win_?"

"I'm just warning you." Harry was still speaking just above a whisper. "Don't get in so deep that before you realize it, you've become what you hate."

Matt didn't know what to say to that, so he put his mask on and left, the sound of her her words echoing in his head all night. The next time they spoke, he was in a warehouse and Harry was in the hospital; she instructed him over the phone on how to heal a badly wounded Vladimir.

Outside, Hell's Kitchen burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a great response to this story, so decided to continue it. It should be something like 4-5 chapters once I'm done, so not too long. Anyway, if you haven't noticed, it'll follow the arc of the show, with variations where I think magic and Harry's personality would make things different. Enjoy :)


	3. Doing The Right Thing

It was well past midnight when Harry got the call. She had been in the middle of a very pleasant dream (involving a certain masked vigilante, but that was all she had to say on the subject because she was a _lady,_ thank you very much), only to be woken up the jarring sound of her cellphone ringing. She didn't even bother to open her eyes as she reached over and groped around her nightstand for it. There was only one person who would call this late.

"Matt?"

"Um, hello?" came a voice at the other end of the line. It caused Harry to sit right up. That definitely wasn't Matt.

"Hello?" she responded suspiciously. "Who is this?"

"This is Foggy," the voice said. He sounded as confused as she felt— perhaps even more so. "Matt told me to call Harry. This was the number listed in the phone."

Harry digested his words. She had heard a bit about Foggy from Matt, but just that they were best friends since law school and that he had no idea of Matt's nighttime activities. She double checked the number Foggy was calling from. The burner. Judging by that and the late hour, she had a feeling Foggy knew now.

"Is Matt alright?" she asked, already scrambling off the bed in search of some clothes. She had been tired that night after a long shift and had gone to sleep in her t-shirt and underwear, so all she needed to do was find a remotely-clean pair of jeans and slip them on. She balanced her phone between her shoulder and face as she did so, almost falling over in her haste.

"He's been hurt pretty badly," Foggy admitted. Harry could just hear the sound of somebody groaning on the other end. She began rummaging through her closet looking for the moleskin pouch Hagrid had given her all those years ago— she still kept it and used it often.

"I'll be there in five minutes," she assured Foggy, letting out a shout of triumph when she found the pouch. Not giving the man a chance to respond, she hung up the phone, shoving it into her pocket, and began summoning her medical supplies to her so she could put them into her bag. In retrospect, she should've seen this coming and kept an emergency pack ready for Matt. Well, she wouldn't be making _that_ mistake again.

As promised, she was at the apartment in five minutes (less, even). She chose to appraise in the alleyway by the building instead of inside the actual apartment (as she had done in the past) to avoid scaring Foggy. Still, the loud pop of apparition was no doubt a dead give-away to Matt that she had arrived. Entering the building and taking the stairs two at a time, she eventually reached Matt's apartment and knocked loudly on the door.

The man who answered was taller than Matt, but not nearly as muscular. Closer to chubby, in fact. His hair was blonde and hung down to close to his shoulders and his eyes—blue— were clouded with worry.

"Harry?"

"That's me," she said, pushing past him and entering the apartment, heading towards the couch in the living room. "I take it you're Foggy?"

"Guilty."

He didn't say anything else, since Harry chose that moment to catch a glimpse of Matt. The last time she had seen him, he was leaving this same apartment ready to look for Fisk and end this whole thing. The last time she had spoken to him, she had been trying (and ultimately failing) to help him heal a badly wounded Vladimir.

But, now. Oh, but _now._

Matt was unconscious and flat on his back on the couch, which she supposed was a blessing for the time being. Foggy hadn't been joking when he said that he was hurt badly. Harry could make out several, deep gashes to his back, chest, and arms, not to mention a mean bruise spreading its way across his face. Harry cursed and dropped her pouch (with its supplies) to the floor and headed over to him. She grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse. Not as strong as she would've liked it, but not as bad as she had expected either, proof enough that Matt was strong as well as lucky.

"Right," she muttered to herself, standing back up and turning to look at Foggy. "First thing's first. You need to leave."

Foggy was clearly not on board with this idea. He sputtered incoherently then managed to say, "Excuse me? I'm not going anywhere."

"I can't heal him while you're here," Harry protested as she bent down to pick up her dropped pouch.

"Why not?" was Foggy's very reasonable response.

It was Harry's turn to sputter. She couldn't very well tell him the truth, could she? That would defeat the purpose of him leaving. Clearly he wasn't leaving without an explanation, either. Possibly even _with_ one. Merlin only knows the number of times she, Ron, and Hermione had snuck into the Hospital Wing for each other. On the other hand, stunning him wouldn't work. Even if she could do it without feeling guilty, Foggy'd wake up and realize that Matt was fully and miraculously healed, which meant memory charms (something Matt would no doubt not appreciate) and— no. There was no time, not with Matt bleeding on the couch. Looks like she was stuck flouting the Statute of Secrecy. Again.

Sometimes she wondered he show got herself into these situations…

"Just don't ask any questions," Harry grumbled, kneeling on the floor next to the couch to get better access to Matt's injuries. She pulled out her wand and summoned a few potions from her bag. One to keep Matt unconscious, another to help with the pain. She also called forth her Dittany. She'd had to restock her supplies twice already since meeting Matt. Ignoring Foggy's cries of surprise at seeing the three bottles shoot out from a pouch that was, for all appearances, too small for it, she opened the bottles and began work.

It took longer than any other session she'd had with Matt before. His injuries were incredibly extensive, leaving Harry to wonder just who had been facing this time. No common thug or criminal would leave marks like this: they were methodical slices, deep and jagged. Some sort of weapon then. What kind of weapon, she couldn't say.

She sat back on her heels once she was finished and wiped the sweat from her brow. The injuries were more or less gone, although injuries that serious would be quite sore for some time, even with magic.

Still, he'd live, and that was the most important thing.

"Are you some kind of superhero?" The voice broke Harry from her musings. Much to his credit, Foggy had stayed quiet the entirety of Harry's work, save for a few gasps and mutters here and there.

Harry groaned as she stood up, joints screaming in protest after kneeling for so long. Answering him, she said, "If I say yes, will you stop asking questions?"

Foggy didn't answer her. Instead, he walked over to Matt and looked down at him. His face softened. "Will he be alright?"

"Yes," Harry assured. "He'll need rest, fluids, and the like, but he'll be fine."

"Then I don't care what you are," Foggy decided. "Just. _Thank you._ "

"He's my friend, too," Harry said with a shrug. Thinking of the kiss she and Matt had shared not that long ago, it felt a bit like a lie on her tongue, but kiss or not it was the closest thing she had to the truth. It's not as though they had had a chance to discuss things since then, after all, much to Harry's confusion and displeasure. She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the time: 4am. Her shift started in a few hours, and, at the moment, she was had covered in blood. First, a shower.

"Can you stay with him?"

"Of course," Foggy scowled. Then he noticed that she had begun to pack away her things. "Wait. You're not leaving!"

"I am," Harry confirmed, grabbing a handful of vials and shoving them into her pouch. "I have a shift in a few hours and I doubt my bosses would appreciate it if I showed up covered in blood, even if I do work at a hospital. Don't worry— he should sleep for another few hours. When he wakes up, give him this. It's for pain."

Shoving a vial at Foggy, who took it, too surprised to do anything else, Harry closed the pouch using its drawstrings and slipped it around her neck. Heading for the door, she paused and took in the sight before her: Foggy, alternating between staring confusedly at the bottle and his hurt best friend; Matt, injured and unconscious, covered in his own blood. It was a heartbreaking image, not the least for which Foggy's expression of complete heartbreak and utter betrayal.

"Foggy?" she asked, pausing as he turned to look at her. _"Don't be too hard on him,"_ she wanted to say. _"It's been killing him, keeping this secret._

She couldn't bring herself to say any of that however. It was hardly any of her business, not really, for all that it hurt her to see the beginnings of the rift forming between the two friends, bringing back to mind times between her and Ron in their fourth and seventh years.

" _He loves you,_ " she could've said, " _and that's why he's doing this: to keep you and the city safe."_

It took a lot of effort from Matt to face the city's criminals down at night, and not just physical. Mental. Emotional. He wrestled with his own demons overtime he went out there and wrestled with criminals. And he did it—at least in some way— for Foggy. For Karen. For Harry. For all of them.

But, no. She said none of it.

"Call me if anything changes," she muttered, before slipping out of the apartment, leaving them behind.

* * *

It wasn't until after her shift the next day that Harry had a chance to stop by Matt's place again. Foggy hadn't called, so she assumed Matt was healing fine. Regardless, she brought her healing supplies with her and even stopped by the restaurant by her house to pick up some chicken noodle soup for him.

Once again, she apparated to the alleyway by his house, entered the building, and took the stairs to his apartment. Her knock on the door was answered by a gentle "Come in." When she did, Matt didn't look all that surprised to see her.

"You look better," she announced, setting the soup on the counter. And he did. Although he was still on the couch, almost as though he had never left, color was back in his cheeks and he had changed into a clean pair of clothes.

"Really?" he said blandly, sitting up so he could turn to face her. "Because I feel like shit."

Harry walked over to him and sat down on the couch next to him, taking his face in her hands, she turned it gently side to side to get a better look and make sure that the bruising was gone (it was). That's when she noticed that his eyes were rimmed red, as though he had been crying. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened.

"I'm guessing Foggy didn't take your secret all that well?" she asked gently, letting her hands drop. Matt took them in his, clenching then gently, a silent thanks for her help earlier. She had come to learn some of his mannerisms by now.

"No," Matt admitted. "He was furious- didn't even think to ask how you healed me. He just stormed out of here. Not that I blame him."

"You were just trying to protect him," Harry soothed. "I'm sure he'll see that and come around. Give him time."

"I don't know about that," Matt denied, and the look on his face was so heartbreaking that it made Harry want to wrap him in blankets and never let him out of her sight— a strange feeling, to be sure, since Harry had never had a mothering bone in her body.

"Did I ever tell you about the times Ron and I fought?" Matt shook his head, recognizing Ron's name from the times she had mentioned him and Hermione to him. "Well, we did. Two big fights, in fact. Both times he, well, he blamed me for things that weren't really my fault, and he left."

"That's horrible," Matt muttered.

"It was. I mean, don't get me wrong. I love Hermione, of course I do, but Ron was my first _real_ friend, and it was lonely without him. But guess what?"

"What?"

"He came back. He always came back. And Foggy will come back, too."

"And you forgave him?" Matt asked. "For hurting you so badly?"

Harry snorted. "Of course I forgave him. We're family. That's what family does."

"I hope you're right…"

"I am," Harry said certainly. "Now, let's go have some soup. You must be starving. Oh, and you can tell me all about what bad guy you were fighting this time."

Matt still hadn't let go of her hands, so she used his grip to pull him up and lead him to the kitchen, where she poured out some soup for them. As she did, Matt explained about Nobu and their fight down at the warehouse. Not once did Harry judge, not even when Matt admitted to going in search of Fisk so he could kill him.

Instead, when he finished, she just exclaimed, "A ninja? A real life ninja? I didn't even know those existed!"

"Says the witch," was Matt's response. Harry didn't dignify this with an answer. Instead, as they were both done with their respective dinners, she waved her wand to send the plates to the kitchen sink and wash themselves up.

"Listen," Harry began, then stopped. She had been putting off telling Matt this for a while, had been hoping to avoid it altogether, in fact, but his new injuries reminded her that Matt attracted more trouble than she did, and he had to know— "There's something I need to tell you."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"I'm leaving," Harry rushed to get out. Matt's face fell, so she went on before he could interrupt. "Only for a little while— not even a week. There's some business I have to take care of in London, and, well, after everything that's been happening, I really need to see my family, just for a while, and-"

A finger on her lips quieted her. Matt was wearing a small smirk, clearly amused by her rant.

"It's alright. I understand."

"You do?" she spoke around his finger. He pulled his hand away.

"I do," he told her. She sighed in relief. That was one conversation out of the way. She grabbed her things and got ready to leave, but Matt's still despondent face stopped her. With a put upon sigh, she walked back over to him, still sat at the kitchen table, and placed a daring kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll always be here to patch you up, Matt," she promised.

Satisfied to see his mouth quirk upwards in a small smile, she let herself out and headed home.

* * *

Harry got another phone call later that night as she was packing her bags to catch her red-eye flight to London. Her clothes were strewn all about the room and a duffle-bag, once again charmed to be larger on the inside, was resting on the bed, half-full. Expecting it to be Matt again, she was surprised to see it was an unknown number. Curious, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello?" asked a fraught-sounding male voice. "I'm looking for Harriet Potter."

"This is she," Harry said, resisting the urge to correct his use of her full name. People only used her full name when she was in trouble, like that time Petunia caught her trying to pick the lock in her cupboard to get at her magic things. "Who is this?"

"This is Keith," He reminded her. "Keith Rosenberg."

It took Harry a few seconds to place the name, then she remembered. When she had first been looking for a place to move to from London, a wizard she knew had introduced her to his brother, —, who was a Muggle and a doctor in the states. He had convinced her to move to New York and was the one to help her find her apartment on such short notice, for which she was grateful. Still, it had been a while since they had spoken. Their lines of work didn't intersect all that much.

"Yes, of course." Harry shook off the fog of her memories and put herself back in the present day conversation, continuing to pack as she spoke to him. Her flight left in just a few hours, but she had stayed longer than she had planned to at Matt's, and it had thrown off her whole schedule (not that she had much of one in the first place). "What can I do for you?"

"I need to call in that favor."

After he had found Harry her apartment (not without pulling quite a few strings in the neighborhood), Harry had promised him that if he ever needed it, she'd owe him favor. It wasn't that she hadn't _meant_ it, but she certainly had't expected him to call (literally) to collect it so soon.

Harry stopped packing and sat down on the bed. Packing so hastily had left her a bit out of breath. Shifting her phone to her other hear, she said, "I'm listening."

"A patient of mine is sick," he said. "Very sick. An emergency. Only, I'm out of the country and my flight has been delayed due to weather-"

"And so you want me to take care of it," Harry huffed, glancing over at her partially packed bag. "I'm supposed to leave on a flight to London in a few hours, you know."

"Please," he pleaded. "She's been poisoned. I know you have ways- magical ways- of dealing with poison."

"I do," Harry agreed, thinking of Professor Snape's old stand-by method of shoving a bezoar down the patient's throat. Inelegant, but it didn't sound as though Rosenberg had much more information for Harry to go by, so it'd have to do for the time being. She summoned the bezoar and the emergency pack (in her trusty moleskin pouch) she had made for Matt just earlier that day to her.

 _So much for my flight,_ she thought to herself as she slipped her pouch back around her neck. Out loud: "Give me the address to the hospital."

"It's a muggle hospital," Dr. Rosenberg cautioned, as though she hadn't already figured that out. Harry rolled her eyes.

"Yes, yes. I figured as much. I'll be stealthy. The address?"

Harry had never been to the hospital Rosenberg listed, so she couldn't apparatus there, but thankfully it wasn't far. A short cab ride later and she was walking through the doors, only to be greeted by a skinny man with a sharp face and glasses. He seemed to be waiting for her. Since there weren't that many people entering the hospital at that hour, he spotted her as soon as she walked in.

"Dr. Harriet Potter?"

She stopped short, surprised, and corrected him out of habit more than anything else. "It's just Harry."

"Harry, then. You can call me Wesley." He gestured for her to follow him down the hall, walking rapidly. The sound of their shoes against the linoleum was a sound that Harry was very familiar with: even wizarding hospitals used the same ugly floors. "We've been expecting you. Dr. Rosenberg called and explained everything.

Harry was a bit uncertain. "What exactly did he tell you?"

"That you're an exceptional doctor," Wesley said, glancing over at her, a frown marring his features as he took in her nervousness. "And that if anybody can help Vanessa it's you."

"Oh. But no pressure," Harry muttered.

They entered a small waiting room, which was filled almost to capacity with intimidating men in sunglasses and suits. They seemed to be congregating around one, larger bald man who was sitting down and who Harry recognized immediately from her television.

Wilson Fisk.

To be fair, he didn't look nearly as intimidating now as he typically did. In fact, he looked tired. Haggard. His eyes were red, as though he had been crying, and he kept clenching and unclenching his fists. When he saw her and Wesley, he jumped up.

"Is this her?" he asked Wesley urgently as he approached them.

Wesley confirmed. "It is."

Fisk turned his attentions to her. "Dr. Rosenberg said you can save her— is it true? Can you save Vanessa?"

In the time it had taken him to approach her, Harry had already reached up her right wrist with her left hand to feel her wand in its holster. It would be so easy to just flick her wrist and end this now… Fisk might be some sort of kingpin, but he was still mortal, and as far as she knew would respond to a stun the same as any other man.

 _Stun him,_ she thought. _Apparate out of here. Take him back to Matt's. Let him deal with it._

Except she didn't want that— Matt didn't deserve to have to deal with this on his own. When she had left him, he was already feeling conflicted about his earlier decision to try and kill Fisk. The last thing he needed was for her to take Fisk and drop him in his lap when he was so confused.

 _Then end it,_ the darker part of her mind whispered. _End it now. You know you can._

And she could see it: the Killing Curse was illegal, but there were a million and one other curses she could use to end Fisk. An overly powerful Stunner could just as easily stop his heart, and she could claim it was an accident. The security guards and Wesley were problematic, but not insurmountable obstacles. Some modified Memory Charms and—

_Wait. What am I doing?_

This was a hospital, not a war zone, and she wasn't a killer, not anymore. That part of her had died with Voldemort, or so she had sworn, and here she was ready to kill again, for a man she barely knew.

 _But you do know him,_ that dark part of her whispered. _He's you._

None of that mattered. She wasn't going to be _that_ person— not again. Not when there was a man (never mind who he was) looking at her like she was the last hope he had.

 _He loves her,_ she realized. And that was what settled the matter for her once and for all. Nobody— not even somebody like Fisk— deserved to lose somebody they loved. She had seen what it did to Snape, after all, and had promised herself that she'd never let somebody else go down that route if she could help it.

She realized that Fisk and Wesley were still waiting for her answer.

"Yes," Harry said softly, moving her hand from her holstered wand to the pouch that hung around her neck and carried a bezoar. "I think I can."

She missed her flight that day, but saved Vanessa. Fisk offered her the use of his private plane in gratitude, but Harry refused. She might've saved his girl and spared his life, but she didn't want to owe him anything. Instead, she caught the next flight out to London from JFK, and as she sat in the plane thinking about what had just happened, what she had done, what she had been prepared to do, she could be certain of only one thing: she _really_ needed to talk to Ron and Hermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is! Sorry there isn't a lot of Harry/Matt in this, but I hope you enjoy it regardless! Please let me know what you think :)


	4. Trust

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, offering Harry a cup of tea. Harry grumbled as she took it.

“Don’t ‘Oh, Harry’ me, Hermione,” she chided, taking a sip and wincing as it burned her tongue.

She, Ron, and Hermione were all seated around Ron and Hermione’s kitchen in their apartment in London. She had arrived in the city early that morning, taken a cab to their place, and used a spare key to let herself in. They had woken up to find her crashed on their couch, much to their surprise since she hadn’t told them she was coming (Harry had originally planned to stay at Grimmauld Place during her trip, but after everything she just _needed_ to see them), and had immediately offered to cook her breakfast. 

While they cooked, Harry sat at the counter and talked, explaining as much as she could about her situation with Matt without giving away the fact that he was secretly a masked vigilante who beat up muggers…

…so not much.

At the moment, Hermione was lamenting the fact that her current relationship— if one could call it that— was no less complicated or any more healthy than her last one. 

“At least Draco called you his girlfriend,” Hermione pointed out, a frown on her face as she shoved a plate of pancakes over to Harry. Hermione had never understood why Harry had dated Draco in the first place. This was also the reason that Harry had never bothered telling Hermione that Draco had hit her— she heard enough ‘I told you so’s’ in her life and didn’t need anymore, thank you very much.

(She also didn’t want to see Ron and Hermione in prison for murder.)

“To Matt’s credit,” Harry defended, “Neither of us have exactly had anytime to discuss things properly.”

“And instead of doing that,” Hermione chided, finally sitting down, cooking complete, “You ran away to London.

“I didn’t run away! I _do_ have business in London!”

“Sounds like running away to me, mate,” Ron offered, speaking up for the first time. Harry glared at him, but all he did was take a sip of his own tea, apparently not bothered. Harry’s scowl deepened as she then dug into her pancakes. There was companionable silence for a few minutes as the trio ate their breakfasts. Neither could stay mad at the other for particularly long amounts of time; even Ron and Hermione’s famous fights fizzled out quickly nowadays.

“I’m just afraid he brings out the worst in me,” Harry said quietly.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed again. Harry swiftly got up from the table and walked over to the sink, slamming her plate and cup down as hard as she could without breaking them. Honestly. If Hermione all Hermione was going to do was “Oh, Harry” at her, she had better things to do.

“I need to go,” Harry huffed. “I have a meeting at the Ministry about some Death Eater trials.”

“You’ve been up all night,” Hermione fretted, getting up herself and going over to where Harry stood. She placed her hands on Harry’s shoulders and tried to get Harry to look at her.

“I’ll get a coffee,” Harry mumbled, doing her best not to meet Hermione’s eyes. In the end, she couldn’t help herself, though, and upon seeing Hermione’s worry etched plainly onto her face, Harry melted into a small smile. 

“I’ll be fine, Hermione,” she assured, and she wasn’t just talking about the exhaustion. Hermione just hummed and brushed a stray strand of Harry’s hair out of her face. After hugging both her friends goodbye, Harry was off to the Ministry.

* * *

It was hours later when Harry flew back into Hermione and Ron’s flat through the Floo. Even years later, she still hadn’t gotten used to it as a mode of transportation. She landed oddly, stumbling out of the fireplace and landing flat on her face in their living room. A snort caught her attention, so she looked up to see Ron sitting on the couch, sipping Firewhiskey, and seemingly waiting for her.

“You need to learn to stick the landing,”

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry grumbled, pushing herself to her feet. She straightened her clothes and then ran a hand through her hair. The latter did little good. Her hair was as messy as it always was, although she was pleased to note that she didn’t need to deal with broken glasses anymore. The corrective surgery she had gotten after Hogwarts was good for something _after all._

“Why are you still up?” Harry asked, now standing. 

“Waiting for you,” he told her, then patted the spot next to him on the couch. That’s when Harry noticed the extra glass of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him.

Harry took the seat and the glass gratefully. “Really? Going to regale me with more of your fantastic advice?”

Ron winced. “Sorry about that. We’ve, uh, well we’ve had our minds full lately.”

Harry noticed Ron’s look and narrowed her eyes at him. Something was up. Then she realized something else: “Where’s Hermione?”

“Upstairs, asleep,” Ron said, confirming her suspicious. When Harry remarked that this was unlike her, Ron grew even more shifty. “She just hasn’t been feeling herself lately.”

Harry’s brain immediately went into “Healer mode,” cataloguing every single thing that could possibly be wrong with her friend. Since the only known symptom she really had to go by was fatigue, it could’ve been almost anything. Thankfully, Ron noticed where her mind was headed and held out a hand to try and placate her before she could get too worked up.

“No! It’s nothing like that!” He assured. He hesitated. “She’ll kill me if I tell you without her…”

“Tell me what?” Harry demanded. “Is she okay?”

“She’ll kill me,” Ron muttered again, this time speaking more to himself than her. After a brief fight with himself, he seemed to come to a resolution. “Alright, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise to act surprised tomorrow when she tells you again!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Harry promised impatiently. “Whatever you want. Now what’s going on? _Is Hermione okay?_ ”

“She’s fine,” Ron repeated, this time a small smile started to grow on his face. “She’s pregnant.”

Looking back, Harry would pinpoint this as the moment where her brain just shut down. All of her thoughts ground to a halt, and she was left staring at Ron, utterly speechless, with her mouth hanging wide open. 

“P-p-pregnant?” Harry stuttered. She took in Ron’s face: his small but proud smile, the added warmth in his eyes, the slight tinge of pink around his ears. Her heart grew at least three sizes in that moment, and she knew, _without a doubt_ that if it came down to it, she’d kill to protect that little, unborn baby, and she hadn’t even met it yet. “Oh, Ron! That’s wonderful news!”

“Thanks,” Ron said, taking a sip of Firewhiskey. “We only found out a few days ago. You’re the first to know.”

“I’m touched,” Harry admitted. “Truly. How far along is she?”

“Four weeks, give or take. So you can understand why she’s having a hard time focusing on your problems,” Ron explained. “Things have been sort of crazy here.”

“I get it,” Harry assured, feeling no ill will at all. If anybody deserved news like this, it was Ron and Hermione. They’d make _wonderful_ parents.

“Although, I’ve been giving it some thought,” Ron continued, “And I think there’s another reason why Hermione and I don’t really have any advice for you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s because you’re wrong,” Ron said plainly. Harry blinked at this, not expecting it. Ron was typically very blunt— Hermione said that he lacked tact, but Harry liked to think that Ron was just a straight-shooter— so it was really more about what he said than how he said it.

“Wrong about what?” Harry frowned.

“You said he brings out the worst in you,” Ron repeated. “He doesn’t.”

“I’ve known him for a few weeks and was ready to kill a man for him,” Harry argued. She had told Ron and Hermione about meeting Fisk, but instead of explaining that Matt knew him through his vigilante activities, she had simply stated that Matt’s firm was working on taking him down through completely _legal_ means. It was torture to lie to them, but she had promised Matt, and she wouldn’t break that promise for anything.

“You were ready to kill a bad man,” Ron said. “Who has hurt and killed people himself. You know what some would say that makes you?” Harry didn’t answer, so Ron went on. “A hero, Harry. It would make you a hero.”

“If that’s what makes a person a hero,” Harry grumbled, “I’m not sure I want to be one.”

“Well, you are one,” Ron snapped. Clearly this was harsher than he intended, because he immediately looked apologetic. His tone softened. “I know you did things during the war that you weren’t proud of, but a lot of people are grateful to you nonetheless. You made choices then— tough choices, that nobody should ever have to make— and you keep making those choices now. That’s what heroes do.”

Harry thought back to how only moments ago she had assured herself that she’d be willing to kill to protect Ron and Hermione’s unborn child and couldn’t find it in her to really argue with him, so she pulled a face. “I never wanted to be a hero. I want to be just Harry.”

“But you aren’t ‘just Harry,’” Ron said more gently than Harry would’ve thought him able, “And you probably never will be.” 

Harry had nothing to say to that, so she just took another pull of her whiskey.

* * *

The next day, before catching her flight home the next afternoon, Harry decided to visit some family. She started with her parents in the graveyard in Godric’s Hollow. Kneeling down, she placed flowers at not only her parents’ graves, but Sirius’s, Remus’s, and Tonks’s, too. Since the war had ended, Harry had also gone ahead and added a tombstone for Sirius, and she had convinced Andy to bury Remus and Tonks there, too: the Marauders were together at last.

The wind nipped at her cheeks as she stood in front of the graves, but it didn’t bother her. If anything, it reminded her of the first time she had seen her parents’ burial spots, those many, many Christmas’s ago. For a while, Harry just talked to them about little things: her new job, moving to New York, her coworkers. She updated Remus and Tonks about Teddy, although she was fairly certain that Teddy and Andy visited more often than she did.

Finally, though, Harry couldn’t contain herself anymore. She let out a shuddering sigh. 

“I’m falling in love with somebody I shouldn’t,” she admitted out loud. “I don’t know what to do.”

If she had been expecting some sort of moment of clarity to arrive because she was with her parents, none did. After standing for another few minutes in silence, she whispered, “I love you.”

Then she left.

After, she stopped by Andy’s home to visit Teddy. Her eyes were a bit red rimmed when she first arrived, but nobody said anything about it, for which she was grateful. Instead, the visit went relatively well— Teddy told her about some of the accidental magic he had accomplished and excitedly chatted about his Hogwarts letter, even though it was a few years away. He showed her some of the new tricks he had learned on his broom (all of which Harry already knew, of course, but she pretended to be surprised by them, like any good godmother would). That didn’t stop her from pulling feint on Teddy and getting him to land in a large mud puddle in the backyard (she was heir to the Marauder legacy, after all).

Eventually, after a few hours flying, she settled down for tea with Andy while Teddy was upstairs showering.

“He’s grown,” Harry said with a smile as Andy prepared her tea.

“Like a weed,” Andy confirmed. “It seems like every weak I’m taking him shopping for new robes.”

“If you need any money—” Harry began uncertainly, not sure how to approach the topic. She knew Andy was comfortable financially, but _comfortable_ and _able to provide for a growing child_ where two very different things. Thankfully, Andy wasn’t offended and waved off Harry’s concern.

“I appreciate the offer, but we’re fine,” Andy says. 

“If you need anything at all,” Harry began, but again Andy cut her off.

“The only thing we need is for you to visit more often.” She handed Harry her tea. Harry took it, blushing.

“Things have been busy for me,” Harry defended half-heartedly. Even with her work, she really had no excuse for visiting more often—such as when she got weekends off. It’s not as though she didn’t have the money to afford the flights. But then the whole thing with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen started up, and she found herself nervous to leave for too long, lest Matt get into trouble he couldn’t get himself out of. Even this short trip was wreaking havoc on her nerves.

“You seem pre-occupied,” noted Andy, and Harry winced. Like her daughter after her, Andy had always been incredibly perceptive. 

Harry suddenly found herself wanting to spill the whole thing: Matt, Fisk… all of it. But no, she couldn’t, just like she couldn’t tell Ron and Hermione (and since when had her life become about keeping secrets from her two best friends? Another thing to add on the list of things she did for Matt). Still, surely she could tell Andy _something?_

“I’m falling in love with somebody,” Harry finally admitted, “But I don’t think he’s any good for me.”

“Why not?” Andy asked. “Does he hurt you?”

“No!” Harry protested, eyes wide. Of all the uncertainties in their relationship, she could be sure of that much, at least. “He’d never!”

“Then what?”

“He just— he has this dark side about him. And it frightens me sometimes, that maybe one day he’ll give into it.”

Andy sipped her tea, lost in thought, and Harry let her think. The Black matriarch always gave great advice, but not without thinking things through first (which, Harry supposed, was why the advice was always so good). Finally, Andy put down her teacup and spoke.

“Do you know what people told Tonks when they found out she had married Remus?”

“Congratulations?” Harry guessed weakly. Andy snorted.

“Hardly,” she deadpanned. “No, they all warned her of what a terrible mistake she was making. That marrying a werewolf was dangerous. That he was more beast than man.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry protested. “Remus was a great man— werewolf or not— and he was perfectly safe as long as he took his potion.”

“And my daughter would say exactly that,” Andy confirmed. A glimmer of pride twinkled in her eyes at the mention of the sort of woman her daughter was. “Still, people were convinced that Remus would one day give into his, ahem, baser instincts. But Tonks didn’t care. She loved the man he was, not the thing he could’ve became. And from that love we have Teddy.”

Before Harry could think of an adequate response to Andy’s story, Teddy came bounding down the stairs, hair still wet (and a vivid shade of pink). Distracted by the antics of her only godson, Harry didn’t consider Andy’s words until later that night, when she was back in bed in Ron and Hermione’s apartment.

Tonks had trusted Remus to be better than his werewolf side would otherwise imply— she had married him, had a child with him. And that was where she differed from Harry. At the root of it all, Harry couldn’t bring herself to trust Matt, not when he so often found himself toeing the line between hero and villain, even though he clearly trusted her.

Turning onto her back, Harry found herself staring at the ceiling as she contemplated. Was it fair of her to judge Matt based on the sort of man he _might_ one day become? Obviously not. What he had done was no more than what she had done during the war. And while she herself hated what she had become in the fight against Voldemort, Ron (and others, apparently) were convinced that it’s what made her a hero— made _Matt_ a hero. 

At the thought of what Matt had done to keep Hell’s Kitchen safe, at what he _kept_ doing, Harry smiled just a bit. His actions and his sacrifices showed exactly the sort of man he was. She’d just been too confused to see it. 

Andy had been right: it just takes trust. Trust had never come easily to her, but perhaps it would be worth it trusting Matt. Surely the benefits outweighed the risks?

Harry turned back onto her side and closed her eyes.

_Yes, yes they do._

That night, a warm feeling in her chest lulled Harry to sleep.

* * *

On the flight home, Harry enjoyed the technological advancement that was in-flight television, catching up on the news since she’d been gone. It was then that she learned of Fisks’s arrest, the subsequent escape and police chase, Vanessa fleeing, the small law firm that had worked to take him down, and (perhaps most importantly) the role of the newly dubbed “Daredevil” in apprehending him.

_Oh, Merlin. Oh, Merlin. Oh, Merlin._

She needed to see Matt— _now_ — so as soon as she arrived at JFK, she found a secluded spot and vanished her luggage away to her house, and then apparrated to Matt’s apartment, just outside his door. It was late in the afternoon, so she wasn’t surprised when he opened the door immediately to let her in, not even bothering to wait for her to knock.

“Hey,” he greeted with a smile. “I didn’t know you were— _OOF._ ”

Harry interrupted him by launching herself at him and pulling him close into a tight hug. He seemed surprised, but not unhappy, and wrapped his arms around her in return. His weight shifted slightly as one of his feet darted out to kick the door closed.

“I heard about what happened with Fisk,” she mumbled into his chest because _damnit, she was so short._ ”I’m so glad you’re okay.” She pulled away and looked over him critically. “You _are_ okay, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” Matt assured her. “Just a few bruises. I’ve got a fancy new suit now and everything.”

“I heard,” Harry laughed. “Don’t even need me anymore.”

“Oh, I’ll always need you, Harry,” Matt said. Harry’s breath caught in her chest, the wind suddenly taken out of her. Matt did that sometimes, she noticed. Said little things which such utter seriousness, as though they were the absolute truth and that they wouldn’t change, come hell or high water.

She cleared her throat and reached around her neck to pull out her trust moleskin pouch, having had the good sense to take it out of her luggage before sending her bags home. It was still packed with her medical supplies. “Let me take care of those bruises for you.”

Matt let her lead him to the couch, and they sat down together. Harry spent the next several minutes healing him. As she had guessed, his injuries were less extensive than normal (no thanks to his suit), and the time went by very quickly. The worst were the bruises on his forearm, no doubt made by some sort of pipe or crowbar— Harry couldn’t bring herself to ask the specifics. When she had finished, they sat in companionable silence, just looking at each other, happy to be in each other’s company. The air was charged with something Harry couldn’t name. The entire situation should’ve been weird, but it wasn’t.

And then…

And then they were kissing.

This wasn’t like their last kiss, which had been soft and gentle. Oh, no. This kiss had heat behind it. Force. Their lips and tongues slanting against each other, Harry quickly found her hands slipping under Matt’s shirt, helping him to tug it off. His hands paused at her waist, and he pulled back.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Definitely,” Harry assured, and she _meant_ it.

That was the last time they spoke for a long while.

At some point, they at least had the good sense to make it to the bedroom, and after, found themselves under the covers in Matt’s bed, both quite spent. The surge of emotions Harry felt was too much, and, despite herself, she soon found herself giggling. 

“What?” Matt asked, tilting his head down at where she had her head resting on his chest. 

“Just— silk sheets?” she asked, not sure what else to say. Matt pulled a face.

“My skin is sensitive,” he defended, only making her giggle louder. He reached out and began attacking her ribs with his fingers, tickling her to the point of hysterics. She tried to wiggle away, but was caught up in the covers, and after a minute, she found herself surrendering.

“Uncle, uncle!” she cried through her laughter. He stopped immediately, grinning smugly. At this point, Harry was lying flat on her back, so she shifted to her side, better to face him. He did the same.

“That was nice,” Matt offered tentatively.

Harry snorted. “A bit more than nice.” 

“I honestly didn’t think you were interested in me, you know?” He admitted. “Aside from that one kiss, you treated me more like a friend than anything else.”

“I was confused,” Harry admitted, after a moment’s pause. “There are parts of you that are too much like me, and that scares me.”

“What changed your mind?” Matt asked.

“My family pointed out that I was being stupid,” Harry answered. “And that it all comes down to if I trust you to make the right decisions— and I _do_ trust you, Matt.”

Matt reached out to brush some hair away from her face. The fact that he knew it was there didn’t even surprise Harry anymore. She had come to expect that sort of thing from Matt. He said, “I trust you, too.”

_Yes, he did,_ Harry mused, and not for the first time, she found herself wanting to tell Matt about her parents, the war, Voldemort. All of it.

“Then there’s some things you should know,” she whispered. Matt raised an eyebrow in invitation.

And so she told him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that-- I've covered all of season 1 of Daredevil. Until Season 2 comes out, I'll be writing little one shots and things set in this universe, with Karen and Foggy and the Weasleys and everybody, probably with a very loose plot. It'll be part of a series: Harry's Home for Wayward Superheroes, so subscribe to that for updates :) 
> 
> Until next time!


	5. A New Client

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for season 2, episode 1 of Daredevil.

Several months passed. Spring came and went, eventually leaving the tail end of summer in its wake. It was on one of these balmy summer nights that found Harry waiting to meet the rest of the group at Josie’s. She found a table near the entrance, where she could watch the incoming patrons, and waited patiently, munching on some cashews Josie had so graciously provided.

Matt arrived first. She called him as she entered and went up to meet him the by door, pulling him along to the table. A quick kiss hello, and then they were both settled in, discussing their days, buying time until Foggy and Karen arrived.

“The firm is broke,” Matt admitted reluctantly, after a bit of prodding from Harry. She’d noticed he’d seemed tenser than usual since arriving at the bar, but as always he was reluctant to share his problems. She considered the fact that he had finally relented a small victory.

Financial problems were always a weird topic for Harry— she never knew how to react to it. The Potter fortune had left her surprisingly well off. Years of living with the Dursleys meant that she was frugal by nature, and her job as a doctor allowed her to live comfortably within her means. She knew from past experience with Ron that direct offers to help were rarely taken well, but she had to try.

“I could spot you a loan,” she began hesitantly, but Matt was shaking his head before the words had even fully emerged from her mouth.

“No, but thank you,” he denied.

“I knew you’d say that,” she grinned ruefully. She took his hands in hers and gave them a squeeze. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

Matt didn’t answer right away, distracted by something. Then he announced, “Karen and Foggy just got here. They’re outside.”

Sure enough, they walked through the door a few seconds later.

Despite the fact that fall was just around the corner, on this particular night, temperatures had topped close to 100 degrees, and Harry was sweltering in the crowded room. Matt, Karen, and Foggy all did not look much better: both Foggy and and Matt had shed their suit jackets (having come straight from the office) and Karen wore an airier, lighter dress, instead of the sleek cuts she usually favored. Harry herself had change into a loose romper after her shift— something that did not go unnoticed by Foggy when she all but yanked her sweater off.

“How do you use the bathroom in that thing?” he asked, as he prepped his cue stick. The four of them had snagged one of the pool tables towards the back of the bar and were preparing for a game. Guys against girls, naturally. Harry just shrugged.

“You pull the whole thing off,” she explained. Karen nodded next to her and muttered, “They’re so comfortable, though.”

“That sounds like such a pain, though.”

“It’s not that bad,” Harry assured him.

“I’ll be sure to test that out later,” Matt added, running a hand gently over her shoulder, stopping short at the nape of her neck. Despite the heat, she shivered.

“Ew,” was all Foggy said as he pulled a face. Matt laughed and dropped his hand (Harry tried not to pout) and the four of them launched into their game, Foggy helping to guide Matt’s shots (for Karen’s benefit, since she was the only one who didn’t know Matt didn’t need it).

Towards the end of the game, Foggy left to use the bathroom, leaving Matt to wait until he returned before taking his shot. While they waited, Harry took a sip of her beer and let out a content sigh. Matt heard and tiled his head.

“Having fun?”

“Yes,” she admitted. She took a step closer to him and leant her head against his chest. This— friends, hanging out, spending time together— was nice. Even after the war, she’d never been able to do things like this with Ron and Hermione, reporters being what they were and hounding her every second of the day. The fact that she got to experience this _now _was not something she’d take for granted.

“Foggy is loving it,” Matt said, stating the obvious. “He’d do this— the four of us— every day for the rest of his life if he could, I think.”

It warmed Harry’s heart to hear that Foggy was so fond of her. In the relatively short amount of time she had come to know him and Karen and Matt, she already thought of them like family.

“Yet, he’d abandon you in the middle of a game of pool,” Karen, who had been listening in, teased.

Matt straightened, as did Harry, both having forgotten— however momentarily— that they were not alone. “One’s bladder waits for no man.”

“I can help you out,” Harry offered, winding her way behind Matt. She pressed a hand gently against his back, nudging him towards the table and urging him to prepare his shot. He went compliantly, and, after she had approached the table, she leaned in to reach for his arms so that she could help guide them. In the process, she made sure to press against him best she could. Karen, watching and understanding Harry’s plan, let out a giggle. Matt no doubt knew what she was up to, too, but he went along with it, a small grin on his face.

“That’s very noble of you Ms. Potter,” he said.

“Oh, I’m a very noble person,” she assured.

“A true Gryffindor,” he parroted.

“We’re also known to be quite bold,” she added, as one of her hands snaked downward to cop a feel of his bum. He laughed, but it came out slightly strained. Good to know she had an effect on him, she supposed, filing away that information for later use.

“I’m sensing that.”

Harry said nothing and just finished guiding Matt into position, making sure that he was lined up to hit the wrong ball.

“You’re all set,” she assured. Matt gave the ball a hit and, sure enough, sent the wrong ball flying perfectly into the hole. Harry backed away and spun on her heel to meet Karen’s proud high-five, just in time to hear Foggy (recently returned from the restroom) let out a wail of anguish.

“No!” he cried.

Matt pulled himself together and pulled slightly at his collar. “That bad?”

“How could you, Matt?” Foggy demanded. “I was gone for two minutes!”

“I got distracted!”

“Pay up, Foggy,” Karen teased, holding out her hand. “Next round’s on you.”

Foggy grumbled as he pulled out his wallet, but it was halfhearted. He gave Karen her cash, so she and Harry could go grab their drinks at the bar. As the two women sauntered off, Harry couldn’t help but overhear Foggy say to Matt:

“Careful, Matty.”

“What?”

“Keep going on like this, and you might actually end up happy.”

Harry couldn’t keep the pleased smile from her face and Karen must have noticed. As they waited at the bar for Josie to get their order ready, she called Harry out on it.

“You and Matt seem to be doing well.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, not even bothering to hide it. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a properly functioning relationship. I forgot how nice it is.”

“And how are you handling Matt’s— you know—“ she made a vague gesture with her hands, leaving Harry completely confused as to what she was talking about. Both she and Foggy had been advocates for having Matt tell Karen the truth about his nighttime activities, but he kept refusing, insisting that it wasn’t the right time. Despite her frustration with this attitude, there wasn’t much Harry could do about it. It wasn’t her secret, after all.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry demurred.

Karen let out a slightly frustrated laugh of embarrassment. “HIs drinking problem.”

“Drinking problem?” Harry deadpanned. _That’s unexpected._

“Foggy told me,” Karen explained. She looked sorry to have brought it up.

“Oh, right,” Harry said, catching herself. She made a mental note to kill Foggy later. “We’re, uh, working through things. One day at a time and all that.”

Thankfully, Karen seemed satisfied with this answer and Josie took that moment to bring the their drinks. Karen and Harry each grabbed what they could carry and made their way back over to the pool table. On their way back, Matt passed by them, but didn’t even acknowledge their presence. He seemed hyper-focused on something behind them. Harry turned just in time to see Matt approach a relatively raggedy looking man near the bar.

“Where’s Matt off to?” Karen asked Foggy as she handed him his beer. Foggy shrugged.

“I’m not sure.” He took a swig of his drink, then gestured to where Matt was. “But I’m pretty sure we’re about to find out.”

Again, Harry turned to look, and this time saw Matt gesturing for them to follow him and his new acquaintance to a table off in the corner. Upon a closer inspection of the strange man, Harry noticed that aside from sweating profusely (and in that coat, of course he was), he had a large gash on his forehead. It had stopped bleeding, but was crusted over with blood and clearly hadn’t been taken care of properly.

“I’m going to see if Josie has a first aid kit,” she said, excusing herself.

When she returned, it was just in time to hear the newcomer introduce himself as Grotto and explain that he was once part of the Irish mob, and that there was somebody out there trying to kill him. Then he fainted due to a larger wound that Harry had missed.

And here she was thinking that she’d get a normal night off.

* * *

Since Harry obviously couldn’t magically heal the man in the middle of a crowded bar, it was off to the hospital. with Karen pretending to be his fiancee and Harry acting as a cousin, they were both allowed on the ambulance and into Grotto’s room. Harry had been slightly worried that somebody at Metro General would recognize her from her occasional stints shadowing there, but thankfully they were sent to a different place closer by. Meanwhile, Matt and Foggy went off to do some investigating of their own.

When Grotto woke up, he was not pleased. He remained convinced that somebody would be after him— it took a large amount of cajoling from Karen to get him to concede to stay. Eventually, though, he fell back into a fitful sleep, leaving Karen and Harry alone to talk.

Harry called Matt, but go no answer. The same occurred when she called Foggy.

“I’m sure they're fine,” Harry assured Karen as she hung up her cellphone.

Karen raised an eyebrow. “I’d be more inclined to believe you if you weren’t pacing so much.”

Harry stopped the activity in question and smiled sheepishly as she finally sat down next to Karen. “Sorry. I guess Grotto’s story has me a bit nervous.”

“Don’t be,” Karen assured. “We’ve changed his name. Nobody but us knows he’s here. It’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” Harry muttered, stealing a glance at the clock. It was well past midnight at this point, and she wasn’t relishing her early shift in the morning. Karen noticed where she was looking and frowned.

“Don’t you have work tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll be okay,” Harry said. The last thing she wanted was to leave Karen alone in a hospital with a potential murderer on the loose.

Karen didn’t seem to have any such cares, though, because she adamantly shook her head. “Go, Harry. We’ll be fine. You need to get some sleep!”

Harry tried protesting, really, she did, but Karen pulled her up out of her chair and more or less pushed her out of the room, ignoring all of Harry’s arguments. In the end, there wasn’t much Harry could do about it other than leave. In the elevator, she did her best to ignore the tense feeling in her gut and overall sense of foreboding that pricked at her skin. It had been a long time since she’d been on edge this way— not since the war. Even working with Matt hadn’t brought these feelings back, this feeling of having to hide, of being _hunted._

As the elevator doors opened, Harry shook the feelings off and crossed the lobby. For all her arguments against it, Harry really _was_ looking forward to getting some sleep. It had been a stressful few hours and the adrenaline rush was wearing off. However, it all came rushing back as she took a step out into the hospital corridor.

Something was very, _very_ wrong.

The hall, once filled with busy nurses, distracted doctors, and patients walking slowly about, was completely deserted. A cot had been knocked over in what looked like some sort of rush. Harry immediately flicked her wand out of the holster and advanced cautiously. Now that she was closer, she could see that the doors to several rooms had been shut and— judging by the shadows on their windows— barricaded.

Heart pounding, Harry cursed and ran to Grotto’s room. To her surprise, it was still occupied, but Karen seemed to have realized what was happening and was helping Grotto climb out of his bed. She seemed surprised to see Harry, but instead just said, “We need to get him out of here.”

“He’s here. Oh, god. He’s here.” Grotto muttered to himself as he stood. Harry resisted the urge to slap him. Instead, she joined Karen in supporting him and together the three shuffled out of the room and made a beeline for the stairs. In fact, it looked like they were going to make it— the stairs were _right there—_ until—

Harry wasn’t sure what made her turn around. Maybe she heard a thump of boots on tile or saw the flicker of a shadow against the wall and didn’t realize it. Or maybe it was the instincts of somebody who had seen battle and lived to tell the tale. Either way, she turned. Instead of an empty hallway, she saw a man— tall and dressed in dark clothes and carrying a large gun. He had a grim look on his face and Harry felt her heart grow cold.

Karen turned to see what Harry was looking at and gasped, freezing on the spot. At that moment, the man across the hall took aim. Harry watched his finger touch the trigger as though in slow motion and reacted immediately: she tossed up a shield spell at the exact moment the gun was fired. The bullet hit the shield and stopped, like a fly caught in amber. Harry let the shield fall, and the bullet clattered harmless to the floor.

Karen was looking at Harry with a look on her face that Harry couldn’t identify (or maybe didn’t _want_ to identify).

“Go— quickly, now. I’ll be right behind you!” she ushered, transferring the majority of Grotto’s weight onto Karen, who staggered slightly for a moment before picking herself up.

Grotto had also stood rooted to the spot at Harry’s actions. “You’re— you’re one of _them._ ”

Thankfully, Karen pulled him along quickly into the stairwell. Satisfied that they were safe, Harry turned again to the man.

Until this moment, he too had been frozen in place, surprised at the shield Harry had conjured up. However, upon realize that his quarry was getting away, he lunged forward, making a mad dash for the stairs. Again, Harry raised her wand, this time firing off a lone stunning spell— not powerful enough to do any permanent damage, but enough to subdue him until the police arrived.

The stunner hit the man full force, and the man flew backwards, ultimately collapsing on the ground. Harry watched for a second to make sure he’d stay down and, once she was satisfied that the man was not getting back up, she began to turn in place, picturing the entrance of the hospital in her mind and preparing to apparate. She could’ve taken the stairs, of course, but this way (she figured), she’d beat Karen and Grotto to the bottom and have time to haul them all a cab. It’d be faster.

As she spun, Harry didn’t notice the man get to his feet, recovering easily from a spell that would’ve rendered a lesser man unconscious. She didn’t see him aim his gun. She _certainly_ didn’t see him pull the trigger.

However, she heard it. And almost immediately after, she felt a pain tear through her stomach with all impact of a freight train against a wall. The wind was knocked out of her as she fell. She had only the time to think of _her_ hospital, where she worked, and its emergency wing before the apparition took her.

Then, she knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! I'm alive! Yay! So this will be a direct continuation of season 1, following the plot of season 2 (probably another four or so chapters). For non-linear snippets and outtakes set in the same universe, check out my other story, "Hell's Kitchen: A History."

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely unrelated to my other Harry Potter stories. I just felt like more genderbending. This might be a one-shot or it might be a whole series (especially with the premier of Jessica Jones). I'm just not sure yet-- depends on the reception this one gets. I hope you enjoy!


End file.
